Always
by diayang
Summary: You want him close by your side, for always.


Title: Always

Author: diayang

Rating: M

Pairing: Ghost/Roach

Summary: You want him close by your side, for always.

Disclaimer: Call of Duty:Modern Warfare 2 (c) Infinity Ward

A/N: Played through Loose Ends, survived the Boneyard, still mulling it all over when my WMP plays all the sad wibbly songs at me, and I sat down and went 'oh god I have to do this.' So it's done.

* * *

_'He's not gay.'_

No. No, he's not.

And neither are you. But there is no woman who will spread her legs for you now - there _is_ no woman, full stop. You're so close, so bloody close to the edge, to finishing, to the end now, that you can't spare a break, can't afford a breather even to get time off, not even two hours to stroll down to the nearest pub and score. It's as though your whole life has been leading up to this point in history, another short violent altercation between nations and countries and ideologies spread out over weeks and days and hours.

And this reality for you, for him, this is the life of a soldier. This is long, long periods of extreme, mind-numbing, deadly boredom, interspersed with bursts of adrenaline-fueled action that go on forever, catching men in its wake and sucking them down, sucking them clean, leaving bones behind, bodies unclaimed. And in five years no one will remember the silent witnesses that curl up in the woods and in the deserts, in the boneyards and abandoned houses, the uniforms and the patches eaten away by time, the broken fingers curled around triggers, the magazines empty.

You don't think of that now. You can't.

Again, again, and again, with your fingers sliding into him, and the sounds he makes are the most helpless you've heard out of him, going straight to your head and the pit of your stomach until your fatigues are so fucking tight you think your cock is going to rip straight through the fly, and the pressure is a grinding ache that you can only ease against the top of his thigh, the crest of his hip. You're done stretching him now, and the slick, slippery path you trail over the perineum up to his balls makes him gasp and arch his hips as though your fingers are still hooked in him, pulling him forward. His face is flushed, eyes glassy, pupils blown, making the blue of his eyes seem darker than you've ever seen them before, and his mouth is bruised and kiss-bitten. You remember the look of them stretched around your prick and it sends a jolt through your chest, an emotion you cannot name. Under your hand, his throat jumps, his breath rasps, and you can feel him swallow, feel the vibration of his voice growling in broken cadences. His hands are pressed against the wall, the only thing holding him up besides the press of your body against his, pinning his hips to the wall.

In the half-light, you notice anew just how very thick and straight his lashes are, a dark fan over his eyes that shades them from so much. And you cave in to the impulse to press gentle kisses over them, the skin of his eyelids thin under your lips, and cheekbones heated when you skim over them, down, down to his mouth and over the crooked little grin that brings up the hint of a dimple in his cheek. His hand on the small of your back is the touch of a butterfly's kiss, trembling and light.

Your fingers cup his balls, the weight and heat familiar, more familiar than you acknowledge, and he groans. At the very edge of your hearing is a dry, squeaking scrape of fingernails over paint, and you imagine more than you see flakes chipping off, collecting under those fingernails, digging hard into the wall. Again, he bares his throat to you, inviting, _trusting_, head lolling to one side as he pushes his hips against you, sharp angles and firm muscle goading you on, scars a testament to the strength in him, and who would you be to deny that invitation, the taste of life pulsing under the skin of his throat, proof of a heart that won't let him quit. He's rock hard in your hand as you take him, whispering music in your ear as you bite down on the junction between neck and shoulder, and you can't do anything else but listen, curling your arm around the back of his neck to draw him closer, chest to chest, and you drift back down to circle a finger around the puckered ring of muscle just to hear him exhale in a shocked gasp, quivering underneath you when you push in again, all the way. You know his gaze is focused on the ceiling, you know his eyes will be blind with pleasure as he fumbles at the front of your fatigues, barely able to get the zipper undone as he rocks back on your finger, until you bite him again in a silent command to stop, this time on the wing of a clavicle, straight and unmarred until it reaches the hollow of his throat, where a line is scored over the skin from a blade gone awry.

You still remember how it bled, and the image of gloved hands clutching at the wound flicker as he draws you out in silent triumph, gripping your cock with a rough, gun-callused hand, and you grunt against skin, bucking into him. The friction is so delicious it almost hurts and it's driving all coherent thought out of your head, filled now only with his silent pleading, as he thumbs oversensitive skin, teasing the slit where it oozes precum, slicking it around the head and you groan, almost buckling against his muscular frame. He isn't tiny, but he's slightly smaller than you are, and although you know he's a tough fucker who just won't quit, there are times when you're compelled to soften up when he's around.

And this is one of them.

You press your face into his neck, feeling his pulse rabbiting, hearing his breath saw in his throat. You don't need to ask him if he's ready - he always is, for you, but this extra softness between the two of you, that exists between the two of you, is something _more_, and you know without knowing that it's just another hold over him, just another way of ensuring his loyalty, that if you told him to jump he would, and damn the consequences - he'd do it because you were his commanding officer and he looked up to you, even loved you a little.

Maybe even loved you a lot.

You couldn't know, and you couldn't ask, so this would have to do, this would have to be enough, and you drag your head down to bite at his chest as he arches up, giving you the space you need to press into him, and god he's as tight as ever, a hot, slick glove around your cock that makes you choke with just how _good _it is.

How painfully, heartachingly _sweet _it is.

You fuck him there, against the wall, as he claws furrows into your back and struggles not to give away too much, eyes rolling back in his head as he stutters - _close, so fucking close, don't stop you bloody bastard, don't stop, more, please_. And you can only oblige, groaning into his ear, unable to stop the muttered stream of invectives that ride underneath the gasps you make as you drive into him, as the orgasm hits, a white hot rip of pleasure as muscles flutter around you, accompanied by a strangled scream and a spatter of heat on your chest and his, and you're still grinding into him as he rides out the aftershocks, twitching helplessly pinned up against the wall, arms shaking around your neck. You don't slide out of him until you're both shaking so hard you can barely stand, and wind up tottering over to his cot, collapsing in a sticky, sweat-sheened pile of limbs.

And in the dark his eyes glitter like gems, making you wish idly that you could have this moment forever, close to your heart, and close to your side, for always.


End file.
